


your opus is my starting point

by ProfMyrtle



Category: Ib (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 14:13:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2814902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfMyrtle/pseuds/ProfMyrtle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year has passed, but Garry is still haunted by dreams of the gallery's denizens. Try as he might, he can't shake their grip. That is, until Ib starts to draw a familiar face, and so does he. Perhaps by revisiting old grounds, the healing process can start. Post-game. Secret Santa gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your opus is my starting point

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Ebeth on Tumblr, as part of the RPG Horror Secret Santa. I'm so glad I got a request for platonic Garry/Ib/Mary. I know this fic might not be entirely that, but I hope gives you the sense that the trio might move on to a better life. Of course, you can always view things in a darker way, but do so at your own choosing. This is all in good fun. Thank you, and enjoy.

 

What woke him in the night wasn’t the blare of car alarms outside his apartment, or the arguments and slamming doors of the couple that lived above him, or even the tomcats that fought until dawn.

What woke him in the night was the sensation of fingers, gentle like flowers and strong like vines, creeping at his legs. They played and traced the lines of his veins. They worked their way up to his chest, and felt around for something they seemed to think he kept hidden on him. When they found his throat, their fingers intertwined in a necklace and he couldn’t breathe. His eyes snapped open and he saw them—he swore on his life he saw them—their eyes like cut gems, smiling in a distorted and watery way.

“Loves me,” the one with red eyes drawled, her hands around his neck. Her thumb was pressed on his pulse. “Loves me not.”

“Loves me,” said the one with blue eyes, her fingers deep in his hair. Nails scraped his scalp. “A little.”

“A lot,” the one in a sick yellow dress started to sing. She held on to his left hand tightly, a vice grip.

“Tenderly,” the last one, murky green, chimed in. “Passionately. Madly.” She had his other hand, and her grip was just as unforgiving as the rest of her sisterhood.

“Not at all,” they all sang to him as he jolted up from the nightmare.

He crawled out of his bed, his legs shaking too much for him to manage standing, and opened the blinds. Neon signs across the street winked at him, and he sighed. 

He stayed there until he fell asleep, and by that time it was nearly dawn. But it was the only way he could stop the trembling.

 

* * *

 

 

Whenever he had nights like those, permitting the weather allowed it, he would go to the park nearby. Most of the time, he would take a novel with him, or an old sketchbook he owned. Although, in truth, he rarely found use for either there. They seemed to be more props so no one would disturb him when he need peace of mind.

“May I see?”

Well, perhaps no one was too narrow a viewpoint. “I’m afraid there’s nothing much too look at, Ib,” he said, an apologetic smile on his face.

“Oh, really?” The girl seemed disappointed. She had been so happy to see her older friend out and about, and even happier to see what he was doing. “I thought I saw you drawing, so…” Idly, she scuffed the toe of her sneakers on the pavement.

“No, I believe the last time I’ve done anything even remotely artistic was… University,” Garry admitted, although he omitted other details. Such as how he dropped out, and why. Ib was only ten, now, still a child. Such complicated matters shouldn’t be pressed upon her. Still, he felt a tinge of regret at having let her down. She had asked him so politely, too. “Would you like to, though? Goodness knows the old thing would probably welcome some use.”

That certainly made Ib perk up. “You’re sure?”

Garry nodded. “Positive.”

Ib drew in careful, long strokes. She had no true purpose in mind, and she had no foresight like a natural artist, but even so, she tried her best to be meticulous. She _wanted_ to create something, the only problem was she wasn’t sure what that was. Garry simply watched her do so for a few minutes, before turning to watch the people pass by. After all, it was rude to hover over someone as they worked; at least, that’s how he always viewed it. He’d had many a painting teacher that would do so, and it had both aggravated and made him nervous.

“Do you dream, Garry?” Ib suddenly broke the peaceful silence, after what must have been twenty minutes. She had stopped, perhaps her work was done. She stared at the paper, feeling unsatisfied.

The question unnerved Garry. It was innocent, he imagined, but it was exactly the type of question he’d been hoping to avoid today. “Sometimes,” he replied, already sorry he had to be so vaguely dishonest to her today. “I suppose everyone does. Why do you ask, Ib?”

Ib still wouldn’t look at him. “Just,” she faltered for a second, before going on, “sometimes I still have dreams. About—“

“I know,” Garry interrupted, although he wasn’t sure if he did so for his sake or for hers. “It’s not an easy experience to forget… even for me.” He couldn’t help but be honest, finally. He owed her that much. She needed assurance that she wasn’t alone in this.

“Yeah.” Ib was grateful he didn’t let her finish. Sometimes talking about it was enough to make her sick, but what made her even sicker was how she couldn’t tell anyone about her worries. Not even her own parents, or her friends. “Most of the time, though, I dream about… Mary.” She said the name like it was a forbidden spell, unsure of what it might unleash when spoken aloud.

When Garry was silent, she was uncertain, but went on. It felt good to let out the words, somehow. “Mostly it’s us walking, together, just the two of us, through one of the hallways. She’s leading the way, but then she turns and she asks me something.”

Garry knew he should say something. “What does she ask you?”  
  
“A lot of things. Do I like the place, who do I like better… who, ah, what would I do if only two of us could leave.” She asked her mother about dreams once. The woman had told her that they were simply your mind replaying what had already happened to you, although sometimes it was a little muggy. Ib guessed that made sense, for the conversation felt familiar to her, although perhaps her mind was playing tricks, since she had experienced this dream many times. “I never get a chance to answer her, though. I always wake up before I can say anything.”

Garry allowed himself a thoughtful silence. He could clearly see it bothered her, perhaps more so than his own. “Do you know what you’d like to say to her, if you could?” He asked, finally.

“I don’t know, really,” Ib admitted. “I mean, I know she wasn’t nice, but… I feel kind of bad for her. It must’ve been really lonely for her there.” Ib couldn’t imagine living in the gallery for so long. She felt it pushing down on her every second she had been there, like she was submerged in the ocean, and her legs had ached from all the running. That had only been a couple of hours for her and Garry.

Garry could sympathize. In a short span of time, he _had_ grown attached to Mary. The thought of another young girl being stuck in that place for so long had seemed unimaginably cruel. Of course, she had been dismissive of him, for whatever reason. “It truly must have been.” Still, he didn’t know what else to say on the matter. He was very much a man that tried to live in the present, if only for the sake of survival. “Do you mind if I see what you drew?” He asked, deciding he could turn this conversation into a happier one, perhaps. 

“It’s not very good,” Ib said, shyly. “I thought I’d try to draw her. I guess… a part of me wishes I could make her live a happier life.”

That explained the initial question. Garry understood, and nodded to show the young girl that he did. After a moment, Ib decided to show him the drawing. It was amateurish, naturally, but Ib was a young girl with little practice. The head was a circular, well, actually it was more like an oval than anything else. The hair was like strings, and he tried very hard not to be reminded of certain dolls… perhaps this was how all little girls started out drawing such thing. “It’s quite good, Ib,” he smiled.

“You don’t have to lie to me, Garry.” She considered herself a very self-aware child. She knew when adults were simply complimenting her although they didn’t actually mean it. “I know it’s not that good. You can probably do better.”

Garry laughed, and he felt like he’d been relieved of something for it. “You can’t judge something you haven’t seen,” he said. “But no, everyone has to start somewhere, and you have good place to start. I’d say you’re a natural.” He winked. Yes, he felt much better now.

Ib considered his words. “Mm, I guess so.” Garry had a way of talking to her that sounded sincere, so she always ended up believing what he said. It had been that way back then, and it remained unchanged even now. “Do… do you think you could try, though?”

Garry blinked once. Twice. “…Try?”

“Well, I still think you’re probably better than me. You said you went to school for this kind of thing, right? I’d like to see, if that’s okay.” She was becoming shy again. Even if Garry was a friend to her, there was still that distance between them that only age could create.

“That’s...” He wasn’t sure how well that would turn out. He was out of practice, to begin with, and for another… well, it just seemed impossible. But even so, he was polite, almost damnably so. It was how he had been raised. “I suppose I could. I can’t guarantee any quality, however.”

“It’s okay!” Ib beamed, and he felt himself sink even further. He definitely couldn’t escape this now.

With a shaky breath, he twirled the pencil in his hand. The first line was the hardest, for it felt like he would never complete it. But once he took the first step, it felt like a fever overcame him. He felt himself going faster and faster, and every step seemed to be going smoother and smoother. Ib watched him, but he didn’t mind; in fact, he felt like her doing so was some kind of support. The kind he needed. When the preliminary sketch was done, he thought he should stop, but he couldn’t. Instead, he became applying color to it. Nothing grand,  just simply traces of yellow for the hair, green for the dress, and blue for the ascot and eyes.

It must have been nearly an hour later he was staring face to face with his own depiction of Mary. She was smiling at him, no, more than that; she was laughing. But it wasn’t mocking or malicious, it was clearly happy in how it practically reached her eyes. He could only stare.

Ib stared, too, until at last she couldn’t hold it in any longer. “It’s amazing! She looks just like how I remember her.” 

Garry wasn’t sure how to feel about that. “It must be simple muscle memory,” he said, wiping a bead of sweat away.

 

* * *

 

 

That night, he dreaded sleep. He did not know what would await him, although he feared it would be Mary.

Mary, singing along with the Painted Ladies. Mary, delicately taking the blue rose from his chest. Mary, plucking each petal with the sweetest of smiles even as he screamed.

He watched the numbers on his digital clock blink and change to past midnight and, although he willed himself not to, drifted off.

He dreamt of nothing, not even darkness.

When he awoke, he was surprised that it wasn’t morning. It was just past noon. He hadn’t slept past eleven in a year.

The days passed, and still he slept uninterrupted. The only curiosity to this was he thought he saw flickers of movements in his peripheral, mostly in the paintings he’d bought years ago for his small apartment. A tuft of golden hair passing by a woman on a barstool that was ordering a drink, or nestled somewhere safe and high, watching the night sky in some replica of a Van Gogh painting.

One day he took out the sketchbook, and turned the pages until he found his own sketch, which was on a page opposite of Ib’s attempt. He hadn’t touched it in weeks, if only because he hadn’t needed it like he used to.

He didn’t know what he was doing, but he began talking to it. Perhaps he’d finally cracked, he wasn’t sure. Still, he felt happier than he had in weeks.

“Your friends haven’t visited me in a while,” he told the laughing Mary. “Not that I’m complaining, but I do wonder if this is any of your own influence. You certainly are a powerful girl, I’ll commend you on that.”

Mary said nothing, of course. But he wondered if he didn’t see her eyes light up in amusement and a little bit of pride. Or perhaps he’d just drawn her that way.

“If so, is this your act of redemption?” He asked, but then laughed at himself. This was silly, but he felt he needed this. “Apology accepted. Well, so long as you tell your friends to stay away.”

Again, nothing. Garry rather enjoyed the silence. It seemed as though even the outside world had died away for now.

“…Perhaps I’ll make a painting for you. I know Ib would like that, hopefully. She seems to want you to have a second chance.” Some part of him said it might be dangerous. After all, Guertena had created a dangerous thing, so who’s to say he wouldn’t create one himself. But another part said that he was not Guertena, and he would be stronger than the long dead man. “It’s close to Christmas, anyhow,” he said, conversationally.

Mary kept on smiling.


End file.
